Night of the Pentagram Read online

  Bryce Avondale, or simply Avondale as he was most often referred, was one of the world’s leading fashion photographers, an international jet-setter with an enviable playboy lifestyle who made the headlines of gossip magazines as often as the escapades of the women he photographed.

  Elizabeth removed her sunglasses. “I’ve seen your work. I guess that sounds rather silly. I mean, who hasn’t? You certainly have a knack for making the world’s most beautiful women even more beautiful.”

  His portfolio was a veritable Who’s Who of anyone and everyone in the fashion and film industry from Grace Kelly to Catherine Deneauve. He was the top pick to photograph the seasonal collections of such luminaries as Chanel, Gucci, and Yves St. Laurent and his work appeared regularly on the covers of Life, Look, and Harper’s Bazarre.

  “That’s what it’s all about. And you are?”

  “Elizabeth. Elizabeth York.”

  On the doorstep of La Casa del Mar, Bryce turned to stare at her. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as his eyes took in her emaciated frame. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. What’s happened to you? You’re not on dope, are you?”

  Elizabeth managed a laugh. “Of course not. I’m working on a picture right now, at least I was. Masquerade. I’m playing a cop who goes undercover as a junkie prostitute to catch a vicious killer.”

  “You’re not one of those method actors, are you?” Bryce lifted the heavy iron knocker and rapped it against the door several times.

  “No, but I am very committed to the role. I lost almost twenty pounds for the part.”

  “Well, if the food here is any good, you’ll put it back on in no time.”

  “I hope not. I hope to be back on set in six weeks.”

  The driver finished bringing Elizabeth’s luggage to the door. Elizabeth opened her purse to pay the driver, but before she could locate her billfold, Bryce produced a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the driver.

  The driver’s face burst into a grateful smile.

  “Mr. Avondale, that’s very kind of you, but really isn’t necessary.”

  “Nonsense. It’s the least I can do after running you off the road. And please, call me Bryce.”

  He was just about to knock again when the door drew open to reveal a short, stout woman in a pressed gray uniform dress. Though she appeared to be in late middle age, her hair was a lustrous black and was drawn into a tight braid which coiled at the back of her head. Her black shoes were spotless.

  “Yes, hello,” Bryce said. “Bryce Avondale and Elizabeth York here. We are, ah, guests of Dr. Abernathy.”

  “Of course.” The woman spoke in a clipped Hispanic accent. “You are expected. Come. Dr. Abernathy is expecting you. The doctor is in therapy, but I will see to it that you complete the necessary papers and make you as comfortable as possible. I am Mrs. Valdez. No, please leave the luggage. Balthazar will take it up to your room. You will follow me.”

  They stepped into the cool interior of the house. It was dark and rich with the smell of polished wood. The foyer was a vast cavern with a sweeping marble staircase which rose from the center of the room before splitting into two branches which continued to the second story of the house. Mrs. Valdez beckoned them at the entrance to a room to the right of the foyer. “Make yourselves comfortable. I do not mean to keep you waiting. I shall only be a moment.”

  Bryce looked at Elizabeth and cocked an eyebrow. The room was furnished with a number of antiques, an odd mix of styles both European and traditional American Southwest. It reminded Elizabeth somewhat of a museum and she was afraid to sit on any of the chairs least a docent should come running out from behind a nearby curtain to scold her for touching priceless objects. She expected at any moment to see an old Hollywood movie star gliding wraithlike into the room.

  Elizabeth and Bryce both looked around the room, both of them overwhelmed by the surroundings, then their eyes met once again. There was an awkward moment of silence before Bryce spoke again.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but what’s brought you here to the Abernathy Clinic? The last I checked malnourishment wasn’t considered a mental illness. Ah, there I go again, nosing around in someone else’s business.”

  “It’s all right,” Elizabeth said. “I suppose it’s bound to come out sooner or later. The doctors say it’s some kind of stress thing: periodic headaches, amnesia, that sort of thing. You see, ever since Sven died –”

  “Sven?”

  “Yes, my husband is…was, Sven Lindstrom.”

  “The director? Of course, how stupid of me. I never made the connection. I’m very sorry. About your husband I mean. I remember when that happened. I was working in Europe at the time. It was all over the news, even there. What an awful way to go. I understand the case is still open.”

  “Yes. The police have been dragging their feet. After all this time, I’m beginning to fear that my husband’s killer will never be found.”

  “You must have felt like you were cracking up after going through something like that.”

  “It’s been painful,” Elizabeth admitted. “I still have nightmares.”

  “I bet you do. You’re smart in coming here though. Abernathy can cure anything, or so they say.”

  “I’ve heard that as well.”

  “I think I can relate to some of what you have been going through. I’ve been through something similar myself. Six months ago my fiancé committed suicide.”

  “That wasn’t Nina Alberghetti, was it?”

  Bryce lowered his eyes. “Yes.”

  Elizabeth remembered the news stories. Nina Alberghetti was an up and coming Italian model who had been linked romantically to Avondale. Avondale seemed to be romantically linked with every woman he photographed. Earlier in the year, about a month before Sven’s murder, Nina Alberghetti’s car had plunged from a cliff into one of the Beverly Hills canyons. After a lengthy investigation the police ruled her death had been a suicide.

  “What an awful year it’s been,” Elizabeth said, “The assassinations of Reverend King and Mr. Kennedy, the Pentagram Murders, the senseless suicide of such a beautiful young woman.”

  “The world is filled with beautiful women, isn’t it?” Bryce said. “I should be the luckiest guy in the world, surrounded by beautiful women every day, but a love like Nina only comes along once in a lifetime.”

  Elizabeth felt a knot of sympathy harden in her throat.

  Mrs. Valdez returned with two slim leather bound folders which contained a packet of papers for each of them to sign. She handed one to Elizabeth and one to Bryce. Bryce flipped through the pages inside his folder with disinterest. “Do we need to read all of this now?”

  Mrs. Valdez’s eyebrows tilted upward. “The doctor cannot accept you as his patient until you sign. I cannot show you to your rooms until you sign.”

  Bryce flashed his brilliant smile and, without taking his eyes off of Mrs. Valdez, scrawled his signature across the last page of the document with a dramatic flourish, snapped the portfolio closed and handed it and the pen back to Mrs. Valdez. The smile never left his face.

  Elizabeth moved toward the window to shed more light on the registration papers. It was several pages filled with fine print and numbered clauses, the sort of thing which Gavin would normally handle for her. She wished he had come with her so that he could review the legal jargon and translate it for her. With a sigh she flipped to the last page and signed her name.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Valdez. “If you will follow me I will show you the ground floor. This is the parlor,” she indicated the room with the sweep of a hand. “Here is telephone. There are no phones in rooms.”

  She moved through an opened set of pocket doors into the next room. “This is the dining room. The house is built on three wings around a central courtyard. You can go outside anytime you want, of course. The courtyard is accessible from nearly every room on the ground floor.” She paused at a glassed paned door that stretched from floor to ceiling and, ope
ning it, beckoned for them to step outside.

  “This is some place you’ve got here, Mrs. Valdez,” said Bryce. “You don’t run this place by yourself, do you?”

  Mrs. Valdez narrowed her eyes at him. “Of course not. My grandson, Balthazar, is here with me. We have a staff of maids to do the cleaning and the laundry; a landscaping service attends to the pool and grounds, and the security.”

  “What do you know, Elizabeth, they have a pool,” Bryce said and Elizabeth could hear a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

  Mrs. Valdez continued, “You see it is busy place. I could not do it alone. I cook the meals and look after the guests. Breakfast and lunch are continental. Dinner is formal in the dining room. Anything you should need, do not hesitate.”

  Elizabeth stepped ahead of them out onto the flagstones of the courtyard. The courtyard might have been called enchanting if it weren’t for the fact that time seemed to have stood still here. The whole place reeked of old glamour with its arches and Spanish columns and moss covered fountains. It would have made a perfect location set for a film set in the early days of Hollywood. Elizabeth was surprised some prior guest hadn’t gone raving back to the studio heads about this undiscovered gem of Hollywood antiquity.

  “Didn’t this place used to be owned by one of those old Hollywood producers?” Bryce asked.

  “That is correct,” said Mrs. Valdez. “La Casa del Mar was originally owned by Roland de Winter. Mr. de Winter built the house in 1924. Everything you see here is exactly as it was when Mr. de Winter lived here.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Should I know him?”

  “Mr. de Winter founded Winterland Studios.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said, though the name meant little to her.

  “There are several books on Mr. de Winter and his wife in the library, history of the studio, the early days of Hollywood, should you care for something to read.”

  “Why not,” Elizabeth said, “I suppose I’ll have more than enough time on my hands.”

  Bryce asked, “How long has it been the clinic then?”

  “Two years.”

  “And how long have you been here, Mrs. Valdez?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes and turned away from them leading them further along the courtyard.

  The courtyard was stuffed with a variety of palm trees, banana trees, jacaranda and orchid trees, and still more bougainvillea flowing from the second floor balconies. In the center of the courtyard was a pool, small by today’s standards, but inviting enough if one were inclined to keep fit with a few daily laps. There was a man floating in the pool on an inflatable raft, tan and blonde from what Elizabeth could see, and in a chaise lounge by the side of the pool was another guest.

  Mrs. Valdez led them toward the woman on the lounge and made prompt introductions. “Mrs. St. John, this is Mrs. York and Mr. Avondale. They are the new guests.”

  “It’s Miss,” corrected Elizabeth, “but call me Elizabeth.’

  “Jewel St. John,” the woman lifted her hand for a brief but cordial shake. Jewel St. John had a regal bearing, just the type of old Hollywood glamour Elizabeth had imagined she might find lurking in the shadows of La Casa del Mar. She was in her mid fifties, with strong features and stunning silver hair that fell to the top of her shoulders where it was neatly trimmed. A pair of black sunglasses perched atop her head. She wore a black one-piece bathing suit with a skirted bottom. A notebook was spread open on her lap in which she had been writing as Bryce and Elizabeth approached, and her lounge chair was surrounded by what appeared to be a portable office. Several books and notebooks were piled on a nearby chair, and there was a cocktail glass, pens and markers, a pack of cigarettes, and an ornate lighter and ashtray all within easy reach.

  “I recognize you from your jacket photos,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve read your books.”

  “All of them?”

  “Just the first two, but I’m looking forward to reading the third one when I have time. The first one, Sister Babylon, wow, that was something else.”

  “I gather from your enthusiasm that you enjoyed it?”

  “Very much. It’s like hearing juicy gossip about people you’ll never meet.”

  “What kind of books do you write, Miss, ah, St. John is it?” Bryce picked up one of the battered and dog-eared paperbacks with its garish cover painting of a scantily clad nymphet rising from the sea like Venus from the waves with the iconic Hollywood sign emblazoned on the hills behind her.

  “Just call me Jewel.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Jewel St. John,” Elizabeth said. “Every one of her books has been an international best seller.” Elizabeth took the book from Bryce and rifled through its pages as if stirring up memories. “’Soon to be a major motion picture’,” she read from the back cover. “I suppose with the new ratings system they won’t have to water down the script too much.”

  “They’ll ruin it, of course. Hollywood ruins everything.”

  “I don’t read fiction” Bryce said. “When I do, I stick to the classics.”

  Jewel St. John narrowed her eyes and eyed him coolly. “Well. it’s not Hemingway if that’s what you’re after. But, I guarantee you, I outsell him by a few million copies. You wouldn’t like it anyway, I can tell just by looking at you. It’s trash, pure and simple. At least my critics think so.”

  “But it’s good trash,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Just the sort of thing people want to read these days. It even says so right here, ‘over one million copies sold’. Are you working on a new book?”

  “As a matter of fact I am. It’s called Babylon Rising.”

  “How exciting. I’ve never met a writer before, at least not a novelist.”

  “There’s a screenwriter on every street corner in this town, right Elizabeth?” Bryce said.

  “I can’t imagine the amount of work that must go into writing a book, all those characters to keep straight…and the detail!”

  “Yes, well, a girl’s got to make a living somehow.”

  The man had come out of the pool and padded barefoot toward them across the courtyard tiles, all Coppertone tanned and Beach Boy blond hair. Brief white bathing trunks enhanced his muscular physique.

  “Mr. Hargrove.” Mrs. Valdez’s introduction was brusque, reminding Elizabeth of a formal butler in the old movies. Didn’t this woman ever smile?

  “Chet,” Mr. Hargrove said.

  Elizabeth looked at Chet Hargrove a second time. At first glance she thought he was Marty Milner.

  “Avondale, Bryce Avondale, and this is Elizabeth York. We’re the new inmates.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that, Avondale,” said Chet as he gripped Bryce’s hand in his. “Mrs. Valdez is a fabulous cook and we ‘guests’ are free to do what we want, as long as we’re back in our coffins by sunrise. You’d never know you’re in a psychiatric clinic. That is until after you’ve spent an hour on Abernathy’s couch.”

  “What’s Dr. Abernathy like?” Elizabeth asked.

  “You mean you haven’t met him?” asked Chet.

  “Sigmund Freud as played by Mickey Rooney,” said Jewel.

  “She’s joking, of course,” said Chet. “He’s quiet and intense. Focused. Besides, look at all the wonderful amenities, pool during the day, backgammon in the evening, and there’s a tennis court down the way if you want to practice your backhand.”

  “Cocktails after dinner,” Jewel continued with a wave of her hand, “Schmoozing with the other guests.”

  “It’s a regular Hollywood Who’s Who for the psycho crowd,” said Chet. “But mostly you’ll be bored to tears. The TV reception up here is pretty spotty. Hope you brought plenty to read.”

  Jewel picked up the battered paperback copy of Sister Babylon and tossed it at Bryce. “They’ll be a pop quiz on Wednesday. I’ll even autograph it for you.”

  Bryce turned to Mrs. Valdez who had been standing patiently by throughout the conversation. “I’m afraid we’ve kept Mrs. Valdez waitin
g. She’s giving us the grand tour.”

  “See you at dinner,” Chet said to Elizabeth.

  “Who is he?” Elizabeth whispered to Bryce as they moved away.

  “Isn’t that Martin Milner?”

  Elizabeth shook her head with a laugh. “Sure looks like him.”

  Mrs. Valdez led them to the other end of the courtyard where a second, smaller house stood just down the rise of the hill. “This was the garage in the old days when La Casa del Mar was first built. Now it is for the security.”

  “Security?” Elizabeth’s brow furrowed with concern.

  Bryce said: “They’re here to keep the paparazzi from climbing over the walls, right Mrs. Valdez? If there’s any photography needed while I’m here I think I’m the man for the job.”